Fantasy Friday: Gendered Magic Sucks

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Her new wand fit her hand quite perfectly,
So sleek and slim and light, it felt a part
Of her, a fine extension. What should be
The first spell she would cat with it? A fart
Resounded; her sharpei was off his feed
Again. With one quick flick, the sulphrous smell
Was gone. Delightful! Now, what did she need
To do next? Seelah felt like raising hell!
She soon found she was stymied. Each attempt
At something awesome ended something lame,
Somewhat her will, but dainty, light and kempt,
Destruction quelled, and forces conjured, tame.
Her hopes and asperations ‘gan to sink.
She should have known: her tool was seashell pink.

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Thriller Thursday: The Collie of Folly’s Literary Pick

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My mistress bought it, but she could refuse
Me nothing in my last days, so the book
Was mine to read and love. I could not choose
A finer final storytime — and, look
I was a dog of taste, somewhat refined
But still enjoyed my thrillers now and then.
When Cities Fail — now really, that’s the kind
Of milieu that I like. I would have been
A great street preacher, or a femme fatale,
Or maybe both, in black and white with such
A noble profile, don’t you think? I shall
Come back as one next time. I have the touch.
At any rate, Matt Wallace is a scribe
Worth following, a credit to his tribe.

Western Wednesday: Poncho and Lefty versus the MWAC

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Said Poncho Pug to Lefty Pug, “Let’s go
Before the Federales find our trail!”
Said Lefty Pug to Poncho “We don’t know
That anybody’s chasing us, but they’ll
Not hurt us. We’re too cute!” He snorted, then.
“You think they’re kind like that?” asked Poncho, “I
Think we are outlaws! Let’s be bad again!
Let’s poop in football stadiums, let fly
Our farts in banks and shops! Let our crime spree
Go into stinky legend!” “Poncho, you
Are so my hero,” Lefty said. “Can we
Hit old Fort Collins first? And Provo, too?”
“Sure! Look out, Albuquerque, and I’ll say
That San Diego’s not out of our way!”

Terror Tuesday: Missy Shitz-poo and the Bronze Bunny of Nasty Doom

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Come on, let’s go! Oh won’t you hurry up?
The daylight is a-wasting. We must go!
Yes now, now, now! I, Missy Shitz-poo pup
Have duties to perform, which you must know:
And we must go to Mylar-Shelly Park
Before the hour of twilight, or he’ll win!
I have a sacred duty, that’s to bark
A certain code or else, for all our sin
The giant bunny cast in bronze will rise,
Will eat the giant hound dog ‘crossed the lane
And then before our awestruck, frightened eyes
Will reign in terror, blood and fire and pain!
You don’t want that to happen, do you? Let
Us go before I lose my nerve, my pet.

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Mystery Monday: Jack vs The Missing Ball Conspiracy

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My ball! My ball! My ball! My ball is gone!
When I lay down to nap, my ball was here.
My mom is laughing. Something’s going on,
But she won’t tell me. I’ll find, never fear!
I cannot find. But over there is Cat.
I bet Cat knows. She always knows. I’ll bark
Until she comes to shut me up. What’s that?
She says that she could find it in the dark?
But it’s still day. Oh, I get it! A fee?
My table scraps allowance? For how long?
No way! I miss my ball though. All right, see
If you can find it. Wait there, something’s wrong.
She found it awful fast. The crime boss Squirrel
And Cat were in cahoots, that nasty girl!

— With many thanks to Kris Sherrod and her ball-crazy dog, Jack (see photo) for the inspiration!

Sappy Sunday: Slow Down, Son

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He watched her brush her hair, reached out to touch
It but the vision faded. Daydreams do
That. He missed her so deeply and so much
Each day, and all day long. He’d muddle though
This one as well, try not to watch the clock
Instead he had to keep eyes on the road
Or else he’d end up like her. As a flock
Of sheep crossed right in front of him, he slowed.
‘Twas such as these that nearly killed her — well
A deer at any rate. One deer, one car…
Best not to think of that. Here came some swell
Behind the wheel of something red. Bizarre
He flashed his lights; the speeder slowed right down.
He’d spared somebody from what made him frown.

Sci-Fi Saturday: Self-Service

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While most admired the silv’ry, brushed-steel sheen
Of Del’s new arms, all she saw were the flaws.
The data ports all worked, sure, and their keen
Response to her commands, these all were cause
For celebrating, but while they could type
At blinding speeds, who did that anymore?
The bev’rage cooler lived up to the hype
(As long as she remembered to restore
The power to her limbs. And jumping jacks
Were not too boring, really), but the folk
Who’d made her arms were prudes, if not pure hacks:
She couldn’t flip the bird or — this no joke —
Indulge herself at night, until she wrote
The “Naughty Fingers” software patch, we note.